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They mocked him.

“You’re just a pebble.

You don’t match our level.

You will get lost

mixed with gravel.”

“If you were shiny,

you would be picked.

Cut.

Polished.

Worn close to someone’s heart.

If you carried fossils,

you would stand behind glass,

labeled,

lit,

admired.”

“But you?”

“Just a pebble.”

It said nothing.

The river turned him.

The sun dried him.

Rain claimed him again.

It belonged to whatever held him.

No shine.

No history.

No display.

Just weight.

Just shape.

Just silence.

One day,

a hand lifted him.

For a moment

it rested in a palm

warm, uncertain.

Then—

the sky spun,

and it surrendered to air.

It entered the lake

without argument.

And the water answered.

Not with applause.

Not with glass.

With ripples.

Wide enough

to touch both shores.